I AM troubled. Reader’s voice: “You’re always troubled. What’s the maittir wi’ ye no?” I’ll tell you what’s the maittir. Sorry, matter. Wild saunas. That’s what’s bothering me.
I’m not sure about wild saunas at all. Twice a week, I go to my local sauna, but it is ordered, indoors and municipal. As most decent things are. Wild saunas sound like wild swimming and, doubtless, readers will recall my harrowing experience of that, in which I emerged from the sea with my knees and feet bleeding copiously.
Having learned the hard way that the adage about never forgetting how to swim was erroneous, I fell in despair to my knees – on sharp stones. It was disgraceful. I am now of the view that every wild swimming venue should have a social worker on standby.
Wild saunas are said to be sweeping Scotland, in various forms such as horse boxes and cabins near the sea, where one is expected to swim in between times, instead of standing under a stainless steel cold shower with proper plumbing, as decent people do.
The trouble with wild saunas is they tend to encourage woo-woo. They attract the wrong sort: enthusiasts, proselytisers and so forth. Despite having a platform here to do so, your humble correspondent prefers not to proselytise, opting instead for doubt, cynicism, despair, castigation and mockery. It’s a living.
READ ON: More Rab McNeil
Consider Estonia. Yes, exactly. There, in wild saunas, women beat each other with whisks to vent their pain and angst at not being men. So it begins. One minute, decent ratepayers are sitting doon in the sauna, sweating respectably and thinking aboot what they’ll have for their tea. Next thing, the swivel-eyed breenge in, greetin’ aboot spirituality and beating each other with whisks. They wouldn’t get away with that down at my leisure centre. There are cooncil bylaws against it.
I don’t like that word “wild”. It drives me, er, undomesticated. Even on my frequent forays into the forest, I prefer stoating along person-made paths, with occasional reassuring signage and a burger joint every 100 yards.
The doors of perception
ON my recent visit to Perth – probably the biggest adventure of my life – I was looking forward to using the gym and sauna at the local leisure centre.
When visiting my local gym and sauna at the Big Village twice a week, I do so thinking at least I’ll see people, instead of sitting in the hoose talking to my Lord of the Rings figurines. But, half the time, I have the gym to myself; same in the sauna on 90% of occasions.
However, in Perth, after a lot of form-filling and an oath-taking ceremony, I found I had – you’ve guessed it – the gym to myself. And it was even smaller than my village one. I even found myself locked in for a bit. You had to press a keypad to get in and oot. “Unfortunately, the number 4 isn’t working,” said the chap showing me round. “Anyway, here’s your number: 3344.” I should have smelt a rat right there.
The sauna started badly. Having worked out manfully in the gym, I didn’t have the strength to open the sauna door. Through the glass, the muscly chaps inside watched me struggling. It’s a bit like when I feel good about myself having lifted a dumbbell. Then I go to tear off a sweat-wiping tissue from the appliance provided, and it takes me six attempts.
To be fair to me, everyone gets nervous in these new situations at saunas and the like, wondering if the handle pushes in instead of pulling out (absurd in a sauna really). In our village sauna, somebody pulled the handle right off. And that was a female. In Perth, all the fellows inside agreed the handle was a bit stiff.
And at least there were people in – three others – but nobody was talking. Some were even on their portable telephones. As usual, I changed all that. If anybody is ever in the village sauna, usually holidaymakers, I gab away and get everyone else gabbing.
I sometimes wonder about the etiquette of this. Some people, particularly in yonder Scandinavia, think the sauna should be a place for silent contemplation. Their heids are full of mince. Even my old Finnish buddy at the village sauna used to appreciate my stories and jokes, though sometimes I saw him in the car park afterwards quietly weeping.
In Perth, I got the ball rolling with a few self-deprecating remarks, with which everyone enthusiastically agreed. It was the same in the steam room, where making a bags of the door again became an interesting and amusing conversation-starter. On this occasion, the door had opened easily. Unfortunately, I forgot to close it.
What laughs. The chaps were all great. And, once more, I’d succeeded in my mission of brightening other people’s lives. Shut up, youse.
Back at the Big Village, I contemplated the prospect of sitting in the sauna maself. Even somebody blootering me with a whisk would have been something. I asked if I could take my Lord of the Rings figurines in but they said no. Cooncil bylaw forbids it.
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